


have you no idea that you're in deep

by pumpkinpickles



Category: Cinderella Phenomenon (Visual Novel)
Genre: Amnesia, Curses, Falling In Love, Familiars, M/M, Memory Magic, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Witch AU, Witch Curses, if u read between the lines mythros is there too tho he doesnt rly appear lol, just varg and fritz being pining idiots !, there's no world building here folks, vaguely alludes to canon's fairytale curse but also......not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22733584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pumpkinpickles/pseuds/pumpkinpickles
Summary: It is always a war with the elements when he angers, when he despairs, a sorrow so profound even the heavens would bend a knee to. Were he not shackled by the curse, surely his magic could overturn even the scales of Fate itself.Silly notions they are - but such fanciful ideas strike Varg, when he sees Fritz; when he saw Fritz drenched in moonlight, saltwater lapping at his calves, clothes wetly clinging to his skin, casting a lovelorn look over his shoulder with sparkling eyes and unbridled laughter. Varg doesn’t peg himself a poet nor a romantic, but it is easy to spin such words when he has spent his life next to such loveliness.(in which Fritz is a witch cursed to staggered eternal sleep, and Varg is his steadfast familiar who struggles to understand why he stays, what love really means.)
Relationships: Fritzgerald Aiden Leverton/Varg
Kudos: 7





	1. the beginning (and the end)

**Author's Note:**

> \- do i wanna know covered by hozier is absolute magic.  
> \- this is 6.1k of self indulgence ! idk half the details to this au lol  
> \- almost (sweet music) by hozier also partially inspired the original idea  
> \- strums guitar. leave a comment my fellow fritz/varg galaxy brainers  
> \- happy belated valentine's day ! love yourself.

* * *

Varg’s first memory was lying on his back beneath a full moon, the pungence of burnt grass mixed with rain, a man whom the smell clings to, undercut by the scent of a sharp spice.

His face filled with open wonder as he stood spellbound over Varg, eyes wide as saucers and pretty enough to get drunk from.

Then he’d laughed, hands coming together in a singular clap. And Varg’s heart had leapt, the joy shared with him so suddenly and intensely he couldn’t do anything but stare.

“Nice to meet you.” He’d said, voice ringing like a clean bell. Holding a hand out, the cut on his palm was already healing. He’d grinned, unconcerned of the blood that dripped down his arm. 

Dangerous, Varg’s instincts screamed. This man could ruin him with a snap of his fingers. But his eyes were kind and when Varg clasped his hand a profound sense of safety washed over him, certain and tangible as the pool of moonlight they were enveloped by.

“I’m Fritz. Please take care of me.”

.

Varg’s first incantation was one of anger, of morbid desire. 

His words had twisted, turned whiplike and pointed, coalescing into the fire of dying stars - 

Until Fritz slammed a bloody palm down and over the circle beneath his feet, an intermediary of a different catalyst forcing the spell to a fizzling halt.

Both had stared at each other for a long moment, one’s eyes wide with shock, the other in horror and confusion.

Fritz’s lips are pulled in a tight line of what Varg is certain to be held back reproach - the thought makes his hands curl into fists, defensive.

Before anyone can diffuse the situation, the moment is broken by a burning hiss of disagreement between ground pomegranate seed and blood.

“Maybe.” Fritz mumbled, deep in the night when Varg had stopped pacing long enough to sit next to Fritz’s bed, arms pillowing his head. It had taken the better half of the evening for the witch to convince his familiar to return home. The moon had been high by the time he had surreptitiously came out the back forest, only to find Fritz sitting on the front porch shaking a bag of dog treats. Mockery was the best bait, Fritz had said when Varg demanded an explanation. He wasn’t wrong, which only infuriated the werewolf more. “Maybe it was the date I called for you. That’s why your magic is so - unstable.”

Fritz’s bandaged hand played with the hem of his hand knit blanket, staring up towards the ceiling blankly. Varg fought down the itch to reach over and still the movement, scowling.

Seeing his twisting expression from the corner of his eye, Fritz’s expression falls, reaching out a hand. 

“Don’t.” Varg said, ears flattening against his head, voice still with a raw edge to it. 

Fritz hesitated, but only for a moment, before tentatively scratching at the tender spot at the base of his animal ear. Varg bared his teeth, but Fritz only scritched harder, another challenge posed in response to the challenge. 

Were it not for their bond, Varg thought he should bite off his hand. Physical damage did not carry through their unique bond, anyway. 

"I'm sorry for scaring you. I promise it won't happen again." 

All thoughts turn to a standstill in Varg’s mind. Fritz’s hand now strokes his hair, slow and staggered from the mild discomfort of the bandage.

Averting his eyes, Varg's tail flicked back and forth restlessly. "Issokay." He mumbled, the unexpected apology making him feel inexplicably guilty - for burning him, for running away, or maybe for even existing at all; cruel, angry and vicious.

Fritz smiled, rubbing a gentle knuckle into his head, making Varg grumble half-heartedly. "Promise I won’t make you want to run away again, too." His tone is light, but his heart stutters and jumps too quick to pass off as such, a telltale giveaway for his true anxiety. 

And Varg felt it, every staccato of Fritz’s heart - in Fritz’s trembling hands, in his own chest.

It unsettled him in a way it shouldn’t, and Varg disguised the discomfort with a scoff. "I’m gonna come back eventually. Don't have anywhere else to be anyway." Despite his flippant words, his ear gives a telltale flick of nerves.

Fritz turned, an arm tucked under the pillow supporting his head as he looked at Varg sideways. 

“So you'll stay?" Fritz's eyes are bright with hope. The sight twisted Varg’s middle into knots. From irksome, surely.

"What else can I do?" Varg asked wryly, tail swishing. Embarrassment coloured his face, the darkened cheeks visible even in the dark.

Hearing that, Fritz’s hand stopped, the battle between speech or silence clear on his face. Biting down on his lip, Fritz slowly inhaled, pushed himself up. Unwittingly used his injured hand, causing a flinch to run through his arm. 

The urge to reach out was instantaneous, but Varg caught himself at the very last moment, jaw set as he watched Fritz gingerly sit up. Watched Fritz glance at him, at his knees, then back at him again, an indecipherable look hidden in his eye, in his small smile.

"Nice to know my partner isn't going anywhere." Fritz said, and his smile cracked a little wider, a little shyer, but still undeniably brilliant even in the darkness of the room.

And the next heart that skips a beat -

Surely, it had been the witch’s.

.

Varg’s first, and only, regret is listening to Fritz.

“I’ll be fine.” 

Fritz had stood on the boundary between their cottage and the town, feet one step away from the circle of protection. Tall grass and overgrown weeds swayed in the gentle night breeze at Fritz’s feet, welcoming the witch into the night air.

Under the canopy of stars, Fritz’s smile had been as bright as always, as if stolen from the veil of night itself. In his basket were peace offerings - a pie and two bottles of wine. Hidden beneath, a vial of moonshine, a bundle of honeysuckle and a silver knife. 

Friends do not bring magic tools for casting into each other’s abodes. Friends do not take precautions against each other. Varg had said as much, earning a forlorn chuckle from the witch as he packed.

Yet Fritz stayed resolute, looking out the window as his hands paused over his scattered belongings on the table. The night had been beautiful, with skies so clear metal and petal alike glinted in the overabundant moonlight that filled their home. 

And when Fritz looked back at Varg to silently smile, his eyes catching in the light, Varg had found his ability for speech stolen from him.

“I’ll be back soon.” 

At the doorway, Fritz had curled his hand around Varg’s, careful and gentle, cautious. Touched their foreheads together, closed his eyes and inhaled softly, brows slightly furrowed. He had held onto the moment, the wolf, as if trying to etch the instant into his mind; the cool air turning Varg’s skin lukewarm, every wrinkle in Varg’s palm, every scent that Varg has carried since that first night under the full moon.

Varg had not done Fritz the same courtesy of shut eye. Instead, he chose to drink in the vision of the witch; of silver moonlight dancing on his cheekbones, of soft radiance settling into his nearly-white hair and lashes; of starlight that he appeared to be born from, all at once vulnerable and powerful and wished upon. 

When Fritz opened his eyes, Varg found himself unable to speak, unable to think all over again - already drunk from the champagne hue.

“Wait for me.” Fritz had breathed, a plea and a promise both.

For the first time, looking at him, with an intensity Varg had to swallow at.

“I will.” 


	2. for the fifth time: i do

* * *

People complain about such trivial things in relationships. Varg’s heard almost every mundane issue there is, and then some.

Being late, not shaving, not replying to messages within the hour. Those people on Yahoo answers and subreddits think they have it hard. 

Boo-hoo, Varg thinks. Try having an amnesiac, narcoleptic witch as a boyfriend.

Said boyfriend is currently leaning against his chest, nibbling on his lip. Varg curls his arms around Fritz’s middle, and Fritz leans his head into the crook where Varg’s neck meets his shoulder. Varg can feel Fritz’s lashes fluttering against his collarbone, and his heart leaps miles until he feels Fritz shift deeper, awake.

Fritz has not spoken much since he woke up. Had only blinked blearily, looked around, confused, before the look in Varg's eye killed the spark of curiosity in his.

This has only happened once before. Varg’s own eyes threaten to shut with the memory, a physical withdrawal from the thought. 

At least this time, he is quiet.

When Fritz is loud, nothing silences him, an unbidden strength drawn from his sadness that breaks more than glass and stone. When he is loud, he cries enough to drown a river, an ocean, himself, a million times over.

It is always a war with the elements when he angers, when he despairs, a sorrow so profound even the heavens would bend a knee to. Were he not shackled by the curse, surely his magic could overturn even the scales of Fate itself. 

Silly notions they are - but such fanciful ideas strike Varg, when he sees Fritz; when he saw Fritz drenched in moonlight, saltwater lapping at his calves, clothes wetly clinging to his skin, casting a lovelorn look over his shoulder with sparkling eyes and unbridled laughter. Varg doesn’t peg himself a poet nor a romantic, but it is easy to spin such words when he has spent his life next to such loveliness. 

Yet long as Varg’s spent by Fritz’s side, he still doesn’t understand how anyone could devote themselves so wholly, so unconditionally to something as fickle as magic.

But to love - maybe, he understood, just a little. It is nights like this when Fritz is soft and warm against him that Varg thinks his fingers are brushing against the concept of it, yet still too far to fully hold on to. 

A fleeting notion that his fear and the even breaths of a curse-induced sleep do not allow him to embrace. 

But tonight, arms full of Fritz, every beat of his heart synchronised to Varg’s, he lets the fear ease and the sensation of his lover pressed against him to wash over him instead, the prickling joy of closeness shared only when both are awake.

Quiet though he is, Varg knows he is upset. Running a thumb down his ribcage, Varg hums questioningly. Another day he would make a joke about having to prod and strum Fritz like an instrument before he offers even a hat for Varg to drop a penny in exchange for his tumultuous thoughts. 

Tonight he will not. Tonight Varg knows to simply wait as Fritz brews, tentative and new and quiet. 

So Varg closes his eyes, settles, and waits. Varg did not use to be so good at staying silent. But decades of experience have trained him well.

Eventually, Fritz tilts his head back. His lip has been worried till it chapped.

“So this isn’t...Brugantia?” Fritz asks, voice so small Varg aches. 

Varg swallows a sigh. Pulls Fritz closer by his waist, resting his chin atop his head. 

“Technically? Yes. But humans have redrawn the borders, so geographically, no.” 

The answer comes easy. Not from rehearsal or practice, but repetition. There is something funny in it, Varg thinks. To yearn and wait and repeat the heartache of succumbing to the ordeal of love again and again; to let yourself fall in love for a night and watch it wither to sleep the very next.

There must be, or why else does laughter bubble anxiously in his chest when Fritz looks at him like the morning sun when his eyelids finally flutter open, when Fritz touches his cheek and calls his name , when Fritz kisses the corner of his lips like it’s been a day and not decades.

“Huh.” Fritz blinks, then pulls a face. “Again?”

Varg laughs, a low rumble that has Fritz pressing his back into with a content sigh. 

“Again.” He confirms, squeezing Fritz.

A smile flitters across Fritz’s face, the first of the night. It is so sudden and breathtaking Varg finds his mind lapsing for the next part of the conversation. 

But Fritz’s smile is just as quick to fold into something more uncertain. He shifts so he is kneeling between Varg’s legs, face to face with the raven. 

Carefully, he slides his hands across Varg’s chest, over his shoulders and neck, threading through his hair. Varg hums, a lower note that Fritz delights in, in the way his fingers twitch a laugh and scratch his nails on his scalp. 

It isn’t until his hands stop at the brim of his boater hat that Fritz’s hands stutter. Tracing the lip with the pads of his fingers until his hands are on either sides of the hat, Fritz chews his bottom lip, lowering his eyes to Varg’s. Curiousity and nerves glint in his eyes, his paused movements. 

Varg dips his head, laughing softly at Fritz’s yelp when the hat slips into his grip. Permission given, Fritz gently lifts the hat off. 

A pair of fluffy wolf ears pop into view, and Fritz’s frame sags with relief. 

“There they are.” Fritz says, scratching the back of one. Varg leans into the touch, tail thumping on the floor, embarrassedly happy. Dust kicks up behind him, a sight that only makes Fritz’s smile grow.

Yet Fritz’s teeth only sink deeper into his lip, eyes still holding a faraway touch, a held back question. Scratches growing slower the deeper he sinks into his doubt, fingers tangling in thick hair and fur alike. 

Tilting his head to press his mouth to Fritz’s wrist, Varg feels his eyelids drop at the thrumming pulse against his lips. 

“I’ve got pennies if you’ll sing.” Varg murmurs, a hand coming up to caress Fritz’s side. He runs a soothing hand from the side of his chest down to his hip, resting on the bone to rub circles with his thumb. 

“We’re not -.” Fritz starts, hand flat on the crown of the hat, pressed tight to his chest. “This isn’t the eighteenth century, is it?”

Varg’s smile turns crooked. “Nope. Try twenty-first.”

Horror overwhelms Fritz’s features, twisting them into a pallid mess. “Twenty - Three centuries? I’ve been asleep for three - ?”

“You’ve woken up four times before.” Varg says. Humour somehow still manages to leak into his callous tone. “This makes it five.”

Words can hardly leave Fritz. He gapes down at Varg, flapping his mouth like a stranded fish. 

Then his arms are thrown tight around Varg’s neck, a vice grip as he flattens his face into Varg’s hair. There’s a stuttering inhale, and just as quickly, Varg is winding his arms around Fritz, pulling him flush against himself.

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence and the harshness of the truth in the air.

“I’m sorry.” 

Varg closes his eyes, clenching his jaw. Again. This was always the part he hated most.

“I didn’t - Fuck.” The swear is punctuated with a choking sob, a rare display of anger doused out with utter upset. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“To be -,” Varg pauses with a forced laugh, willing it to calm Fritz enough to still the apologies. “To be fair , the curse said you’d sleep, not forget. Hardly your fault he screwed us both over.” 

Fritz vehemently shakes his head, grip only tightening. “I made an oath to never leave your side. A promise. ”

“You were.” Varg tries, but his attempt at silencing his partner ends with him being silenced instead, with the sudden chill as Fritz pulls away. Instantly, Varg’s hands fall to Fritz’s hips, holding him in place, the cold uncertainty of departure still looming over him.

Gripping Varg’s face with both hands, Fritz fiercely glares at him. But his anger doesn’t hold up as well as his sadness does, tears already glazing his champagne eyes a dizzying hue.

“I wasn’t. I couldn’t be, when I’d forgotten. Don’t deny that I wasn’t there, that I couldn’t keep my - my promise.” The gravity of the situation sinks in deeper, and Fritz falls forward, as if weighed by it, knocking their foreheads together. “I’m sorry.”

“...God, stop fucking saying sorry.” Varg says, vicious. Discomfort crawls beneath his skin, anger at the situation and at Fritz unearthing from a place he’d tried so hard to bury. “It’s not your fucking fault.”

Fritz bites on his bottom lip again. It is hard when your lover’s existence can be acknowledged in full only by you. It is harder still when the guilt cannot be absolved by words, only time. 

“I hurt you.” He quietly admits. “I didn’t….I didn’t mean to, but I am.”

A familiar look of guilt paints itself on Fritz’s face. Before he can pull away, run, as he is prone to do - prone to believe he should, Varg hooks an arm around him, drawing a startled yelp from the witch.

“You did. Shouldn’t have followed that shitty witch and got cursed.” Varg says, rolling his eyes. 

“No, I...I shouldn’t have.” Fritz echoes. The lighthearted tone must not have translated, because Fritz is dropping his head, hands curling into the hat instead of Varg’s hair.

“Joke. Itsa fuckin’ joke.” Varg snorts, tapping Fritz’s cheek with his knuckles. “You’re the fool for trusting him, but he’s the asshole for cursing you.”

Fritz looks up, frowning. “I can’t tell if you’re cheering me up or not.”

“Yes.” Varg says, straightfaced.

Fritz squints at him, prompting a smirk out of the raven. That has Fritz pulling the hat back atop his head, squishing his ears into the accessory in the process, earning an uncomfortable grunt from the familiar.

“Ass.” Fritz says, voice stupidly fond. Letting go of the hat, Fritz’s hands come to a rest on either side of Varg’s face. Despite his resurfaced anger, Varg cannot deny the comfort Fritz’s touch brings, the longing it soothes. “...Are you upset with me?”

Varg’s lips twitch at the question. Again, Fritz’s insecurities rear its head. Indignation simmers in Varg’s middle; the thought that Fritz could never hold onto the memory of repeated forgiveness, of repeated rows and shouts they've had over this same topic.

“Yes.” The reply makes Fritz duck his head in shame. Lifting his chin with a crooked finger, Varg looks at Fritz, amused. His reaction was always the same. And so would his answer. 

Maintaining steady eye contact, Varg leans in. “I’m upset that you left on your own. I’m angry that you tried to throw your life away for me. I’m suicidal too. Let me do it next time.”

Fritz’s eyes blow wide in shock, then narrow. “No. I’m the magic one. You’re not taking any hits, not when I'm still here.”

Their eyes lock, holding the stare for one long, tense moment. 

Varg pinches Fritz’s chin, dragging his face closer. Teeth bared, a low growl emits from the werewolf’s throat. 

“I said, no .” Varg snaps. 

A flash of anger that no doubt mirrors Varg’s own crosses Fritz’s face. The fierce overprotectiveness steeped in obstinance - it reminds too starkly for Varg to fold; the same look he’d seen before Fritz left the cottage and returned cursed.

“No.” Varg repeats, louder. “What, being amnesiac and narcoleptic not good enough for you? Should I go get another witch to pull out your teeth and cut out your tongue so you can’t agree to stupid deals anymore?”

Pressing closer until their breaths mingle, Varg grins sardonically. Relishes in the way Fritz only defiantly glares back, champagne eyes gleaming with the vivid opalescence of trapped moonlight. “Know what? Pull up a chair, I'll get some pliers and do it myself. Maybe then you’ll listen to me.”

Fritz leans in, eyes darkened through his long white lashes. His thumb smooths Varg’s jawline patronisingly, pressing painfully into the dent behind his earlobe. “Oh, I’d love to see you try, Varg.”

Another beat of silence follows.

It is times like this that Varg detests Fritz’s stubbornness, the reluctance to allow himself to be protected for once, the need to always stand strong running through his veins in lieu of blood.

Where did that lead them? To a cold cellar with naught but a coffin full of funeral flowers frozen in time.

Yet Varg cannot deny the way his heart had sung at the sacrifice, the distance his lover was willing to cross just for them. The way he’d cried as much as his heart had soared at the act, over the shallow rise and fall of the sleeping witch lain still amongst full blooms.

In the contradiction of what it meant to love and the love he sought, Varg finds Fritz; yet finds himself still yearning more, craving more of Fritz, of that intersection that is a mere side of him.

What was he seeking, really? Validation? Fritz’s reliance? Love? 

Glancing an absentminded thumb over the sore lip, Varg doesn’t know the answer. All he knows is when Fritz’s lashes flutter at the pressure over his lip, moonlight eyes cracking into stars, his heart patters a little quicker, a little more insistently with the need to close the distance between them.

Slowly, Varg leans forward to kiss the familiar indent in Fritz’s bottom lip, eyes slipping shut to the sound of a breathy sigh. Cradling the back of Fritz’s neck as the other slants his head to slot their lips in a more familiar pattern, the kiss is tender, a reassurance translated through the gentleness they share.

When they part, Fritz’s eyes drift shut for a moment. His expression is soft, dreamlike, as if awakening all over again when his eyes slowly reopen. 

Fritz hums, the sound exhausting the trepidation in Varg’s bones. His canines poke Varg when he presses another chaste kiss to the corner of Fritz’s mouth.

“Next time.” Varg promises against the skin. Fritz pauses, leaning back to look at Varg in amusement. “Floss and a door would do the trick too.”

Fritz rolls his eyes. “Sure, and while you’re distracted tying floss to the doorknob, I'll take the pliers and render you toothless.”

Varg fakes a loud gasp, laying a hand on his chest. “But I need them to survive!”

“And I need mine for my spells, so we’re even.” Fritz smiles primly, patting Varg on the cheek. 

“Asshole.” Varg grumbles. 

“Takes one to know one!” Fritz replies cheerily, pecking him sweetly on the lips. It makes any other words of discontent die in Varg’s throat, a satisfied hum sounding in its stead. 

The whiplash speed of which their relationship switches moods could give anyone vertigo - one moment it’s daggers and poison and the next is roses and honey, sticky sweet and soothing for the throat sore from swallowed knives. It’s a fast paced dance, unmatched by any other but a learnt partner who can predict your next step before you even take it. 

He’s missed this, Varg thinks, as he rakes a hand through Fritz’s hair, pushing the long bangs away from the left side of his face. Pinning the hair back, a few loose strands escape his grip, falling across Fritz’s face in a familiar pattern. 

“You should put your hair up again.” Varg says, as Fritz presses his cheek against his arm.

Fritz crinkles his nose in consideration. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll cut it.”

“Nah.” Varg says, slyly smiling. “Give me something to pull.”

Fritz barks a startled laugh, flicking Varg’s nose. “Watch yourself.”

The raven only laughs in return, teasingly digging his nails into the witch’s neck. Fritz jolts at the sudden sensation, and sends Varg a halfhearted glare. Varg only smiles innocently back, languidly tracing the base of Fritz’s neck with his nails, comforting the red lines with the dragging heel of his palm.

Unable to hold back an embarrassingly contented purr, Fritz flops facedown onto Varg’s shoulder. Despite the clear enjoyment, his shoulders are jittering in an effort to keep his giggles down. Cheek to hair, Varg grins. Fritz has always been ticklish in the weirdest places.

“Feeling sleepy already?” Varg teases, even as he does not give up the stronghold he has around Fritz’s waist, even as he feels his words stick to his tongue before they are verbalised.

“No?” Fritz replies, smile evident as pressed against Varg’s shoulder. Varg’s heart trips at the sensation, and trips again when Fritz turns his head to look up at him through his lashes, past his mussed bangs, a curious brow arched. His eyes are sparkling wide and aglow, fetching in the moonlight, undeniably awake. “Would be weird if I was sleepy now .”

“You’ve slept at odder times, love.” Varg sighs. The pet name slips past unbidden, the relief and moonlight reflected in Fritz’s soft gaze loosening his tongue. He flushes immediately.

Meanwhile, Fritz’s spine straightens instantly, face positively lit, an absolutely delighted smile splitting his face in half.

Before Fritz can say anything, Varg is crushing his mouth back onto Fritz’s, although it is less kiss and more a forceful manner to keep the witch silent. To Varg’s chagrin, the leaking giggles from his lover tells him it is a futile effort.

“Love, huh?” Fritz says the moment they part, eyes twin mirthful crescents. His cheeks are a bright rosy hue, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I haven’t heard that in a while.”

Varg groans wordlessly, headbutting Fritz, who only giggles louder. At that moment, Varg feels his crushed spirits rise as much as they deflate. It is a surprisingly humbling moment that does not last long against his personality. But it happens, and Fritz pounces upon it with a vengeance. 

“Sa-ap.” Fritz singsongs, thumbs tapping to every syllable on Varg’s cheeks. “You’re a big fluffy sap.”

“I’ll throw you out.” Varg threatens.

“Of my own house?” Fritz tilts his head with a wide grin. “You don’t have that power, freeloader.”

“I paid your bills for three centuries. I’ll do whatever I want. Including this.”

Without hesitation, Varg mercilessly begins tickling Fritz’s sides. Fritz’s retaliation is to immediately fall on his side with an uncanny shriek, dragging Varg down with him.

They land in a tangle of limbs and wild laughter, uncaring of the cold where the wooden floor meets bare skin. There’s sure to be bruises forming from Fritz’s windmilling arms and Varg’s prodding fingers tomorrow, and maybe even a floor to repair. 

But tonight, there’s nothing but the two of them and their endless peals of laughter, warmed inside out from happiness and embarrassment, and the knowledge that they are alive, and awake, so, so awake.

Varg stops laughing long enough to turn his head to Fritz, and his smile only grows fonder at the sight. 

Upon the chestnut wood, white hair halos around Fritz, one arm lying across his eyes while the other clutches his middle in a pitiful effort to control his laughs. Shafts of moonlight stream through the blinds, cutting his figure into panes of light and shadow. Yet somehow his entire being appears to be aglow when he lowers his arm, tilts his head to look back at Varg, cheeks a pretty red and grin all teeth; utterly picture perfect.

When Fritz’s eyes find Varg’s, his expression falters, creases into one more somberly sweet, in the way his eyes still smile even as his lips lose their grin. 

Turning on his side, he reaches out across the small distance between their faces, fingertips brushing Varg’s cheekbone. It’s only then that Varg realises his own smile has slipped, facial features twisted into something surely ugly and bittersweet, from the tender way Fritz caresses his cheek.

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I want to say it.”

Varg clicks his tongue, but it is less spite and more habit. “Should have known I can’t shut you up for long.”

Fritz only smiles; tucks himself into Varg, forehead to forehead, nose to nose. Every touch feather soft and certain - a scream and a whisper of presence all at once. 

“I’m sorry. And I’ll say it as many times as I need to.” 

The inherent sincerity in the whisper makes shivers tumble down Varg’s spine. There is an ache in Fritz’s words that Varg has long since tired of hearing, long since fallen in love with.

Varg only mutely nods. He is not gracious enough to separate the wants from the rights, not gracious enough to shut down the unneeded apology. Not when the pain still hollows in his chest. 

It is a knowledge they’ll both share again in the future. Maybe on another day, maybe not. But it will be shared, either to an awaiting ear beneath the sun or to a silent body bathed in candlelight’s glow.

But the way Fritz looks at him tells Varg the knowledge is already shared, unspoken as it is. 

Varg leans in, pressing a soft kiss on the eye of his other half a soul. Fritz closes his eyes as he does, a silent sigh brushing lightly on Varg’s collarbone.

“Tired?” Varg asks again. This time the question is a tentative murmur, too aware of past proceedings to trust. He lays a hand flat on Fritz’s chest, waiting for the thrumming of his heartbeat to slow, for their time together to once again hasten to an end.

“No.” The rejection is immediate. Fritz’s hand comes to rest upon Varg’s, lacing their hands together backward. “But you are, aren’t you?”

Varg laughs, quiet. “Maybe just a little.”

The witch tugs his familiar downward, shifting just so that they fit neatly against each other, with his cheek upon Varg’s head. Fritz begins carding his fingers through Varg’s hair, scratching lightly behind his animal ears. Varg sinks into his embrace, eyes shutting to tune into the sensations on his scalp, the light hum his lover makes whenever he exhales.

“Then sleep.” Fritz says, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll be here when you wake up.” 

It is a fool’s promise. Varg would be one himself if he believed in it. 

But Fritz’s voice is a soothing lullaby, familiar and gentle like the moon he worships. 

As he slowly drifts off, Varg can’t help but think maybe this was love, to be warm and not so content and worried, but trying to trust in it still; maybe this is where he’s meant to be, gravitating towards Fritz with his ocean of unnameable emotions, yet dreadfully warm all the same, dreadfully heartachingly sweet like his lover’s lips. 

For the first time in perhaps decades, Varg lapses into a dreamless sleep buried in the scent of petrichor and dust; the only sweetness that lingers into his sleep not that of funeral flowers - but the press of Fritz’s lips upon his crown.

Warm, and so very awake.


	3. what happens in a mystical desert city stays in a mystical desert city

* * *

In another memory, another time, when Varg was still desperate and the pain of being apart still threatened to tear him into ribbons of pain with every beat of his shared heart, he was alone with Fritz. 

Late sunlight streamed lazily through the open windows, pooling at their bare feet and curling over their forms, curling into every whorl and lock of opalescent hair. The oaken table between them creaked with every shift of weight, every cautiously lifted hand. Day curtains flapped carefreely around their heads, occasionally wrapping itself around their shoulders before gently falling back. 

Fritz sat across from him, beguiling in the heat haze; chin in palm, other hand resting on his upper arm. Cool silks and gauzy fabric arranged loosely around his frame, pulling in the wrong directions; hints of rich sepia skin peeking through, blended soft through the translucent fabric. Eyes half lidded, concentrating only on the board game laid in front of him. 

Almost artful, but mostly a lovely, silken mess. 

In the air there hung the intoxicating scent of spices and myrrh, mingling with the heat, the knowledge that this was different, somewhere farplace and away - away from everything and anything, a slice of something nearly perfect for just them two.

In this lifetime, Fritz had awoken in a cramped room, amidst pillows of every size and shape, the warm scent of the sun and star anise clinging to him. Glided across the room to press a kiss on the back of a freshly tattooed neck, hummed “good morning” and asked no questions. Only looked out the window to the raucous, colourful street beneath and raised a brow, glancing back at Varg.

“We’ve traveled far.” 

Varg had thought of the sleepless horseback rides, the rattling caravans they’d stolen away in, the forest they’d crossed before it gave way to the town nestled deep in a seemingly eternal desert. 

“You wanted to explore.” Varg had smiled, heart lifting at the sound of Fritz’s returning laughter. 

There had been no snide remark, no wry comment on missing out on the sights, only a featherlight touch to the back of Varg’s neck, fingertips gliding over the familiar sigil. 

_Illusory sight, to hide, secret._ Fritz’s fingers traced the interlaced patterns, and asked no questions. Only drew another sigil lightly over the ink with his nail, too faint for Varg to parse.

A humid wind swept through the room, brushing through their hair and loosely fitted clothes. Varg had not dared to turn his head, not even when Fritz pressed a kiss to his shoulder and encircled him in a loose hug from behind.

He did not apologise. Only peppered kisses across the exposed panes of skin, laughter a touch softer when basking in the midday sun. Lips skimming the sensitive ink, a sorrowful sort of understanding translated in the way he had only lingered upon it.

Varg thinks maybe that is why it is his favourite memory; the memory he revisits when he is cold and leaning against an oaken coffin surrounded by candles, hand sinking as if endlessly into the chilled petals of hyacinths and lilies.

Back in the tiny room, Varg’s hand had rested upon warped wood, hot despite the setting sun. The balmy climate affects even the encroaching night, the golden hour turning all that it touches into something resplendent and warm.

Gazing only at the person before him, radiant in the filtered sunlight. A picture of slipping fabric and contentment, rolling a game piece between long fingers, movements languid in a manner that coerces the world to stop for him.

Outside, the indiscriminate chatter has given way to the buzz of cicadas, the strings and songs of a passing minstrel. Mellow and ascending, the lyre sings bright and full, accented by the hum of Summer heat. 

Fritz has tilted his head towards the window, a smile unravelling like the notes of a love song. Loose silver-white bangs framing his face, long lashes fanning his cheeks. Flecks of dust catch in the light, almost appearing aglow in the slice of weak sunlight he was framed in.

Enchanting even in gold, even in silver. Varg had felt his heart racing, slowing, bursting all at once, a messy emotional cacophony expressed by the minstrel’s low baritone, soaring and powerful to the lyre accompaniment. 

It had been new, it had been young, a dawning realisation that Varg had not understood, still does not. 

Watching Fritz’s features smooth in the light, the heartache eases for the first time, teetering into something sweeter, like a thorny rose in bloom.

So lost in the picturesque scene, it is another belated moment before Varg notices the even pattern Fritz’s breaths had slowed to. But it hurt a little less with the heavy scent of myrrh suffused in the heat, clinging onto Fritz’s skin and shawls, prominent as Varg gathered the sleeping witch in his arms.

Intoxicating, treacherous, the way his lips still curved in a smile as his head lolled against Varg’s chest; body carrying the sharp smell of star anise and sunshine, different and familiar yet adored all the same. 

He belongs here, Varg remembers thinking, sunken in embroidered cushions and silken threads, cheeks coloured by heat and swathed in light.

But he cannot stay. He won’t. 

Lying sideways next to Fritz, hair spilling into each other’s in the small space, tangling his fingers with Fritz’s own, still warm, Varg leans into Fritz’s shoulder, and closes his eyes.

And in an uncharacteristic moment of weakness, wishes that Fritz might. 

But stay where, with who, he does not allow himself to wish, unspoken and wretched in his selfishness.

He only wishes, too lovestruck to do anything else more, too afraid to voice it as a promise.

He only wishes, back of neck burning with the ignorance of Fritz’s quiet confession.

_Protection, safe harbour -_

_Home._


End file.
